GOT: The Prophecy of Shadow and Steel

Torak awoke to the soft glow of dawn slipping through the cracks of the tent, accompanied by the faint sounds of the khalasar coming to life. A yawn escaped him as he stretched, feeling the weight of a warm body nestled beside him. Marakka's peaceful face rested on the furs, her breathing slow and even. He carefully slipped out of bed, his movements quiet so as not to disturb her.

Once dressed in a simple tunic and leather pants, he stepped outside. The cool morning air greeted him, along with the stoic presence of Malika standing just outside the tent. Her face impassive.

"Malika," Torak said, ignoring the stiffness in her demeanor. "Arrange a meeting. I want all the important people of the khalasar gathered. We need to speak."

Malika's brow twitched, as though restraining herself from asking why. Instead, she simply gave a curt nod. "As you command." She turned and strode away, her steps purposeful.

The meeting took place in the center of the encampment, where fires smoldered low and the important figures of the khalasar stood or sat in a loose circle. Torak stood tall at the center, his commanding gaze sweeping across the crowd. Nakarro stood to his right, arms folded, while Malika lingered behind him like a shadow. His mother, too, stood silently among the elders, watching with careful eyes.

"I have called you here," Torak began, his deep voice carrying over the muttering crowd, "because it is time for change."

The word alone sparked unrest. Dothraki men exchanged glances, murmurs broke out, and more than one warrior frowned. One of the older warrior stepped forward, a broad-shouldered man with braids that marked decades of battle.

"Change?" he said, the word laced with disdain. "The Dothraki are the horselords, as we have always been. We do not need change."

"You don't see what I see," Torak said firmly. "We are strong, but we can be stronger. Our warriors are fierce, but they lack unity. We carry blades, but no armor. How many of us have fallen because of this?"

"Armor is for cowards who hide from the fight," another voice shot back, a younger warrior with fire in his tone.

Torak's gaze hardened. "Armor is not cowardice. Armor is survival. What use is your bravery if you fall to a single blade?" He paused, letting the words hang. "And what use is your pride if another khalasar, or another army, strikes us down because we refuse to adapt?"

The older men scoffed, their resistance evident. "We have survived like this for centuries. We need no lessons from a boy," one of them spat.

Torak's jaw tightened, but he held his temper. "If you will not listen to me, listen to your own warriors. How many sons, how many brothers have you lost in pointless bloodshed? I am not asking you to abandon tradition—I am asking you to be stronger for it."

The murmuring quieted somewhat as his words hit their mark. Yet the dissatisfaction lingered on their faces, etched deeply into their expressions.

"And what would you have us do, Torak?" Nakarro asked finally, breaking the tension.

"We will create better weapons—longer blades, sharper spears. And we will forge armor to protect our warriors. We will train as a single force, not as scattered riders. We will fight together, and we will be unstoppable."

The resistance was still there, but the murmurs softened. The crowd shifted uneasily, and after more back-and-forth arguments, Torak's authority finally won out. Their agreement came begrudgingly, but it came nonetheless.

"We will begin training tomorrow," Torak announced. "And some of the harsher customs—the pointless blood duels, the wasteful challenges—will change as well."

A growl of displeasure ran through the crowd, but Torak's presence stifled it. His gaze was unrelenting, his voice ironclad.

"The world changes, whether you like it or not. We either change with it, or we die. I will not let the Dothraki die."

The meeting ended, and the crowd dispersed. The tension remained, but Torak had planted the seed of change.

As the leaders walked away, Torak remained with Malika, his mother, and Nakarro. From behind came a voice both playful and petulant.

"You left me alone in bed, Torak."

Marakka's voice rang out as she approached, a teasing smile on her lips. She strode toward him, hands on her hips, her hair loose and wild. "And after such a good night… I am offended."

Torak raised an eyebrow, smirking. "And here I thought you enjoyed your sleep."

Marakka pouted dramatically. "Not without you."

Malika's lips thinned, and Torak's mother shot Marakka a look of clear disapproval. Torak caught his mother's gaze and gave her a subtle gesture, silently telling her not to worry. Then he turned his attention back to Marakka, who grinned triumphantly.

"I will make it up to you later," he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

That evening, Torak walked among the warriors during their evening drills. It was clear they lacked discipline—some idled, others sparred half-heartedly. Their disdain for the coming changes was written on their faces.

Enough, Torak thought.

He stepped onto the training grounds and stripped off his tunic. "Bring me a spear!" he called.

The warriors paused, their gazes turning to him in surprise. Someone tossed him a spear, and without hesitation, Torak dove into the training. He sparred fiercely, sweat dripping down his back as he moved with relentless energy. His stamina seemed endless, his resilience unshakable. He struck, dodged, and countered again and again, pushing himself far past what any man could sustain.

By the time the stars blanketed the sky, the warriors stood in awe. Torak stood panting, his body glistening with sweat, yet his expression was determined.

"This is how we will train," he said. "This is how we will become strong."

Later that night, Torak sat with Nakarro in his tent.

"There is resistance growing," Nakarro admitted. "Some of the riders and elders speak against you in private."

"I expected this," Torak replied calmly. "Change is hard for them. They will see the truth in time."

Nakarro nodded, though his brow remained furrowed.

After his bath, where Malika quietly assisted him, Torak finally returned to his tent. He lay in the quiet darkness, the day's weight heavy on his shoulders.

It was then he heard the faint rustle of the tent flap. His eyes opened, finding Marakka slipping inside. She wore a mischievous smile, her movements slow and deliberate as she approached.

"Couldn't sleep," she whispered, climbing onto the bed. She moved toward him, straddling his lap, her gaze warm and suggestive. "You left me wanting, Torak."

Torak smirked, resting his hands lightly on her waist. "You have no patience, Marakka."

"Not for you," she purred, leaning closer.

The night passed in blissful warmth for Torak. By morning Torak's mind once again turned to his responsibilities.

Over the following weeks, Torak immersed himself fully in the transformation of the khalasar. He woke before dawn each day and oversaw every aspect of the camp's progress. The clang of hammers striking metal became a constant sound in the air as blacksmiths toiled under the sweltering heat, shaping crude iron into armor pieces and stronger weapons. The work was slow—most Dothraki had never seen armor, let alone forged it—but under Torak's watchful eye and unwavering command, progress took root.

Torak walked among them every day, inspecting the forging stations, testing the weight of spears, the edge of blades, and the strength of newly designed shields. Armor, though primitive compared to the steel of the West, began to take shape—leather reinforced with hammered plates of iron, light enough not to hinder a rider but strong enough to protect vital areas.

When he wasn't in the smithies, he stood among the warriors, watching as they trained. At first, many resisted, scoffing at the new tactics he introduced—formations, synchronized movements, shield walls. "This is not our way," they would mutter, begrudgingly complying only out of respect or fear of their Khal.

But Torak did not falter. He trained harder than any of them, leading by example. Sweat would pour down his body as he ran drills for hours, sparring relentlessly with warriors who dared challenge him. Even the most stubborn riders began to see his endurance, his resilience, and the strength he demanded from himself. Though grudging, respect started to build.

Still, not everyone was convinced. Some warriors whispered quietly in the shadows, resisting the changes he brought to their ancient traditions. Torak knew of it—Nakarro had kept him informed—but he chose not to confront them yet. Instead, he let his reforms speak for themselves, confident that time would win them over.

Three months passed. The camp slowly but steadily grew stronger. The warriors fought better, trained harder, and the weapons and armor, though rough, were beginning to change the khalasar's appearance.

One morning, Torak stood with his warriors in the training grounds, overseeing drills. Spears clashed against shields, men roared, and dust billowed into the air under the weight of hooves and pounding feet. Torak watched intently, his sharp gaze catching every flaw, every hesitation, his voice booming corrections.

Suddenly, the thundering of hooves approached, cutting through the noise. One of the scouts galloped toward him, his horse kicking up dust as he slid to a halt.

"Khal Torak!" the scout called, breathless. "A khalasar approaches—a large one."

The warriors around them froze, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Panic rippled through the camp as some stopped their drills, uncertainty etched on their faces.

Torak's expression remained hard, unmoved. He strode forward and looked the scout in the eyes. "How many?"

The scout hesitated before answering, "Their numbers are far greater than ours, Khal."

The unease among the warriors grew, whispers escalating into worry.

Torak raised a hand, silencing them all. "Enough!" His voice cut through the air like a whip. He turned to the assembled warriors, his tone calm and commanding. "We are Dothraki. Numbers do not make men strong—strength does. Gear up. Ready the horses, sharpen your blades, and don your armor. This is no time for fear."

The warriors nodded, though their faces remained uncertain. One by one, they dispersed to prepare, the tension heavy in the air.

In Torak's tent, where Malika helped him don his newly crafted armor. The leather and iron pieces fit snugly, the work of weeks finally bearing fruit. She worked quietly, her hands swift and steady as she fastened each strap and buckle. Torak stood still, his expression unreadable as he stared ahead.

"Your armor suits you, Khal," Malika said softly, breaking the silence.

Torak glanced at her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Worried for me, Malika?"

She met his gaze, her dark eyes unwavering. "Always."

Before Torak could respond, a voice spoke from behind them. "Torak…"

His mother, Alaena, stood at the tent's entrance. Her face betrayed her worry despite the calm front she tried to maintain. She stepped forward, her voice low but firm. "You do not need to face them. We can pull back, regroup."

Torak turned to her, his gaze softening slightly. "I cannot run, Mother. They come here for a reason. If I show weakness now, the khalasar will never follow me again."

"They would..," she replied sharply. "But only if you live to lead them."

Torak walked toward her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "I will live, mother. And we will show them that this khalasar is not to be underestimated."

Before Alaena could argue further, Nakarro entered the tent, his expression serious. "Khal Torak. The warriors are ready."

Torak nodded, the weight of command settling onto his shoulders. He turned to his mother one last time, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Trust me."

Alaena said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line. As Torak left the tent, his broad figure disappearing into the morning light, her worried gaze lingered on his retreating form.

Outside, the camp buzzed with activity—men mounting their horses, swords gleaming, armor clanking, and voices shouting orders. The air was thick with tension as the Dothraki prepared for what was to come.

Alaena stood at the tent's entrance, watching as her son, her Khal, strode purposefully of her robe.

"May the gods watch over you, my son," she whispered, her worried gaze never leaving him as he mounted his steed and rode toward the gathered warriors.

The sound of hooves filled the air, as Torak led his warriors.